And the Bicycle Lived Happily Ever After

Sometimes, a lot of times, things don't work out. Sometimes they do. Today at the shop on a rainy Saturday in May, something worked out. Something, you know, blog-worthy.

Upon installing a waterbottle cage on a Trek 2.3 WSD that I had just sold to a very nice woman, I discovered, while trying to back one of the bolts out, that it was cross-threaded into the insert and that the insert itself was spinning in the frame. Very bad news. This bike was minutes away from being on its merry way out the door, and suddenly I had hit a major snag. But I didn't panic. I told to customer to go get lunch and that when she returned, I'd have either fixed it, or have figured out what Trek would do.

I was determined to get that bugger out, but it would take faith combined with a lot of genuine, seasoned skill with a hacksaw to do it without destroying the frame. So I recruited the assistance of Jamie, our Zen master mechanic who believes that anything is possible, and we got right to work.

The plan was to cut the bolt head off, pry the flange of the insert away, pound the insert into the frame, and fish it out of the bottom bracket shell. Once that was accomplished, we could simply press a fresh insert in with our waterbottle bolt insert inserter thingy, which I didn't even realize we had, and call it good. Would it work? Would we destroy the frame? Would the insert refuse to fit through the vent hold of the downtube and remain forever inside, rattling away like that pebble your riding buddy discretely placed in your handlebar, driving you completely mad while he anomalously snickered?

We didn't know the answers to these questions as we courageously embarked on our task. You never know, but you cannot be afraid. You gotta believe. As George Michael taught us, you gotta have faith.

As it turned out, we achieved success, and aside from a few scratches on the frame, which were easily covered up with a frame sticker, (hey its gotta go somewhere, why not just about the waterbottle cage?) the bike was as good as new. We had the bike back together with all the remaining accessories installed by the time the very nice lady returned from lunch.

It's days like this, when the stars are all properly aligned, that you're reminded that life can be good, that work can be good, that people can be good, that your butthead friends who play tired practical jokes on you can be good, and that George Michael, who cannot seem to behave himself, can be good too.

The Moose and the Birthday Cake

There are some folks out there who travel great distances to our neck of the woods with the sole purpose of catching a glimpse of one our most treasured wildlife; the woodpecker. Not very many people, but some, I reckon. But there are many more people who are far more interested in seeing an even greater natural icon; the moose. Occasionally, we will be asked where the best place to see a moose is. That’s kind of like asking where the best sighting of a rainbow will occur, or if it will be snowing when they come up for their vacation next month.

I’m from Maine, so I’ve seen plenty of moose in my time, and since living in Vermont, I’ve seen a fair share of the gentle giants, as well as a few bears, countless deer, foxes, porcupines, raccoons, skunks, hippies, poodles, and other vermin. It’s always a thrill to behold the beauty of these elusive creatures, and whenever I see one, I pause and reflect and consider myself fortunate to be living in such an amazing place that is home to all different walks of life.

This past weekend, my lovely fiancée, my dear mother-in-law-to-be, and I went out to East Bumf…I mean, Woodbury, to celebrate my sister-in-law-to-be’s 30th birthday party, and to eat delicious cake, baked by the birthday girl herself, with her husband and two kids. Last year they moved into a 4000 square foot farmhouse surrounded by acres and acres of quintessential Vermont country. It’s a long drive from the nearest beer store, but as long as the fridge stays stocked, which is does, there’s no reason why you’d ever want to leave there.

Right as we were about to settle down for dinner, the man of the house noticed, way down in the meadow, hanging out in their little pond down there, a moose. From our vantage point, way up on the hill, it could’ve been a large sheet of burlap draped over a swingset, but due to the fact that it was slowly trudging about, we assumed it was indeed a moose. I wanted a closer look, so I headed outside and made my way to the pond.

When I appeared from behind the bushes that lined the pond, the moose came into clear view. It was large, lanky, beautiful, and it was staring right at me. The sound of peepers filled the air as the two of us engaged in a staring contest that caused time to stand still. Eventually, I started getting bored, so I took one step forward, and that was that. The moose slowly turned around and disappeared into the dark forest. At that point it was just myself and the peepers, so I thought I’d find a few and check them out, as I had never actually seen one before. I made my way out to a rock near the edge of the water and crouched down. I could hear thousands of peepers peeping away at a volume similar to a Metallica concert. I swear there was one perched on my shoulder even, but that was just my imagination, apparently. Minutes passed, the peepers kept peeping, but I was unable to spot even one of the damn things.

I headed back towards the farmhouse and saw another one of nature’s most beautiful creations, my fiancée, briskly walking towards me. Apparently, when I crouched down on that rock, it appeared as though I had fallen into the pond with all the peepers, and she was worried. I assured her that I was fine and that I would never be that careless, considering we had delicious cake awaiting us.

200 Miles, Here I Come

I crossed a milestone yesterday. I’m pretty sure, if my math is correct, that I surpassed the big 100-mile mark for the season on the road bike. Thank you. I was already in the high nineties before I started the ride, so look out 200 miles, here I come. I may not be on track for yet another 5000-plus mile season, as some people are, but I should make it to 1000, and considering that I have other interests, such as throwing Frisbees at trees and drinking beer, watching the Red Sox and drinking beer, and mountain biking and drinking beer, that isn’t too shabby.

The first one hundred miles of the season are always the hardest. The bicycle seat is simply not the best interface between a human and a machine, and every spring, your butt has to go through a period of re-acclimation while it toughens up. Likewise, your neck and back take their sweet old time adjusting to being in a bicycle riding position for multiple hours, and your legs, like lost souls, have to search for themselves. It is the time of the season where you are perfectly content to ride solo, while you struggle up that hill, and suffer against the inevitable homeward bound headwind that sucks out of you whatever energy you might have left.

But then, as the miles pile up, your body starts to come around, and that thirty-mile ride that almost killed you in April becomes merely a warm up lap. Your legs stay under you, your butt becomes as tough as a leather football helmet, and your neck and back, well, they still hurt like hell, but you embrace the pain and push on like a Nepalese Sherpa carrying an ill-prepared tourist suffering from elevation sickness down the mountain, while dragging an injured mountain goat.

That may be a bit of an exaggeration, unless of course you’re talking about those first 100 miles.

Bloody Brilliant, I say

I work at a bike shop. During a typical workday, I sell bicycles, buy bicycles, promote bicycles, build bicycles, repair bicycles, destroy bicycles, display bicycles, talk about bicycles, read about bicycles, check my email, think about bicycles, look at bicycles, test ride bicycles, hang bicycles, organize bicycles, knock over bicycles, curse bicycles, weigh bicycles, fit bicycles, and search for my missing allen wrench set that somebody borrowed and didn’t return. I sincerely like my job and I’m good at it, and I have finally accepted the fact that the bike shop is where I belong, and chances are I’ll never completely break away from the damn place.

That notion used to be unsettling for me, but I’ve since shifted my perspective about work as it relates to life and happiness. These days I’m perfectly content doing what I do for the rest of my working life because I know that what I do is good. Bicycles are good. Helping people ride bicycles is good. The customers are good (minus a few exceptions). My coworkers are good (you know…sure…yeah…mostly). Even the pay is good (versus pretty good or marginally good). Honestly, what more is there?

But now I’m faced with a dilemma. Having been living and working in Montpelier for the past seven and a half years, I will soon be moving forty miles away to Burlington so that my fiancée and I can be closer to UVM where she is going to medical school. The idea of commuting by car, considering the price of gasoline, the carbon footprint thingy, the wear and tear on the old Subaru, and the time penalty is utterly fearsome. Commuting by bus is more eco-responsible, but with a greater time penalty combined with the likelihood of being stuck next to someone who wants to speak with you, is equally frightening. As for working in the Burlington area, there are plenty of bike shops, but working for one of them would be crossing the lines, switching teams, sleeping with the enemy, treason. I would be like the Johnny Damon of the bike shop world. I don’t want to walk into ORS someday and get booed.

So here’s my idea: Onion River Sports should simply open a shop that I could run in the Burlington area. Chittenden County needs an Onion River Sports and Onion River Sports needs me. It’s bloody brilliant. The scores of people who drive from the greater Burlington area for the service that only we provide would be elated, the scores of people who settle for mediocre service in the greater Burlington area would be overjoyed, and best of all, my personal dilemma would be resolved!

Now, the guy that could make this happen, as you might imagine, has a few reservations. He also has more on his plate than a starving horse logger at a bean supper, so he needs lots and lots of encouragement from folks other than me. If you happen to run into him, please let him know that you have endorsed my proposal and maybe, just maybe, ORS Burlington will become a reality. And maybe, just maybe, the pay will be pretty good.

Laughter Is The Best Medicine

This past weekend was Mother’s Day weekend, and the weather was as lovely all the bouquets of flowers that were purchased at a premium at florists all over the world. I bought my mom a hanging pot of purple petunias instead of an arrangement of flowers. If I’m going to spend the big bucks on a perishable gift, I might as well go for one that will last longer than a week, assuming she waters the damn thing.

My sister, my fiancée and I drove to Maine to visit the old girl in hopes of cheering her up a bit. The past few months have been rough times for her; death, sickness, near-death, heartbreak, and financial challenges are among the ugly heads that have reared themselves recently, and on top of it all, her two kids haven’t been calling enough.

We didn’t need to worry about getting there too early on Saturday, because she had to attend the funeral for her former boss’s wife, who finally succumbed to illness after a long battle. The deceased was very fond of my mother, as most people are, and my mom, of course, was very fond of her. Although her death wasn’t unexpected, it still packed a punch, and it hit Mom hard enough.

It goes without saying that the girl wasn’t in the best spirits when we arrived. Not even the assortment of olives I brought could prevent her from dwelling on her recent misfortunes while unsuccessfully holding back tears. But we heard her out, gave her lots of hugs, and pretty soon, she started to turn around. Later, we all piled into the car and drove to her sister’s house, where her mom and other family members were gathered for dinner and drinks. It was quality family time for everyone, and when we left, Mom was close to her normal, fun-loving self.

The next day, after breakfast, we drove to a nearby lake to enjoy the sun and warm spring air. It was very pleasant and relaxing. On the way back, I caught something out of the corner of my eye that was as frightening as it was sidesplitting. I insisted that we turn the car around so that all of us could have a look. As we slowly backtracked, the spectacle came into view, throwing my mom into a fit of uncontrollable laughter that nearly caused her to drive off the road. What we saw was this: a woman, who in the spirit of being politically correct would be described as non-obese challenged, wearing tight pink pants and a tight turquoise shirt, her bosom indiscernible from the rolls that framed it, had wedged herself in a lawn chair with a garden hose gripped in her hand like a pistol, so that she could water her bed of tulips. She was as immobile as a lawn ornament and as majestic as a fountain as she aimed her stream of hose water at her target that lay on the opposite side of the embankment she was perched on, facing the road.

Of course we had to turn around and drive by her again to get home. She hadn’t budged, but I think she might have noticed that we had driven by three times, and despite having rolled up the windows, she very well may have heard our hysterical laughter. Hopefully she wasn’t on to us. We meant her no ill will.

Mom was still laughing so hard she almost missed her own driveway. By the time it came for us to head back to Vermont, she was as carefree as the wind blowing through a hanging basket of purple petunias.

Hard times got you down? Try this: good company, quality family time, rest and relaxation, an assortment of delicious olives, and the best medicine of all: a good dose of belly-rolling, uncontrollable laughter.

I skipped out of the group road ride last night to participate in one of my favorite activities, throwing Frisbees at trees. It turned out to be a good choice, as a life was saved.

If you’re not aware of the exciting game of Frisbee Golf, it is played a lot like regular golf, only with Frisbees instead of golf balls, trees or rocks or the doorways of sheds instead of holes, and instead of a bag of golf clubs, a bag of beers. This is not to be confused with Disc Golf, where instead of Frisbees, they use regulation “discs,” instead of trees or rocks or doorways to sheds they use official looking structures made of chains and metal, and to further separate them from hacks like us and to further legitimize Disc Golf, or “Disc,” as a bona fide sport, they carry around much fancier bags for their beers.

I did well for my first game of the season, finishing seven under par, and I didn’t even throw my arm out. But that wasn’t quite good enough, as my arch nemesis, (I won’t use his real name so I’ll refer to him simply as “Dufus”) beat me by a stroke.

Just as we were about to tee off on the fifteenth hole, some friends of ours showed up and noticed that a woodpecker was trapped inside the old shed that contains piles and piles of even older things and sits on a foundation of railroad ties recently hoisted in an attempt to keep the structure from collapsing to one side. The little red, black, and white speckled bird had found the one open window to get in, but couldn’t find it to get out, so we went in to see if we could help the little bugger along. Trying to direct a frightened woodpecker to an open window is no easy task, especially when it’s hiding behind piles of cardboard boxes full of Grandpa’s long forgotten personal effects. He wasn’t making it easy for himself each time he ducked into an even darker pocket, but eventually, we were able to get him to within a few feet of the window, and with careful maneuvers, we shooed him out the window and into the glorious spring evening.

I usually feel a bit guilty when I choose to throw Frisbees at trees instead of putting on the spandex and crawling into the pain cave in an attempt to keep up with riders who are much faster than I, but knowing that my decision resulted in the successful rescue of a little woodpecker erased any doubts that being a slacker isn’t always a bad thing. In fact, as I learned last night, it can be a divine thing. If only I hadn’t bogeyed that one time.